


They Shall Rise Again

by harborshore



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU - no Infinity War, Depression, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Technically starts before Black Panther
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: When he wakes up, there is nothing.Bucky in Wakanda. New beginnings are harder than they sound.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Dylan Thomas' And Death Shall Have No Dominion. 
> 
> Feel free to ask questions/cheer me on - I can't be the only one with too many feelings about The Black Panther and Bucky Barnes.
> 
> Starting this up again - had to rewrite it to reflect Black Panther, and also I need Infinity War-related therapy, so this fic will Not Go There.

When he wakes up, there is nothing. His mind is a blank. It feels like a sheet of ice, thin and clear and strong, that’s stopping him from thinking. He knows what his name is, he knows who he is, but everything that—everything else, it’s closed off.

 _Apologies_ , comes a voice, ringing through the emptiness. _We didn’t want you to wake frightened, so we shut some things off_. Absently, he registers that this would normally provoke him, but he can’t get to his anger. He can’t get to anything, and it doesn’t scare him. They must’ve shut that off too. Means it can’t be Hydra; they didn’t give a fuck about his feelings.

 _Where am I?_ he thinks back at the voice.

 _You’re in Wakanda_ , the voice says. _You voluntarily underwent a freeze until we could be sure we’d shut off the command words in your brain._

That does set off a memory. Seven words, and then, blankness. But nothing happens when he thinks them.

 _Did you?_ he thinks.

 _We did._ The voice sounds a little smug.

_How?_

_Very advanced neurobiology,_ the voice says. _Would you like to wake up?_

 _Yes_ , he says, and almost regrets it when he feels the sheet of mental ice retreating, the turmoil behind it starting to rise to the surface. He is always himself, and he was always himself, and he remembers way too much.

He blinks. He’s in a room. A very shiny room. Lots of machines. He distantly remembers something similar from when he was frozen again, which is also starting to come back, making that decision.

Steve’s face, closing his eyes and not fighting the blankness or the cold.

There’s a man in front of him. He remembers him.

“Your majesty,” he says. His voice is rusty, but not like it normally is after a freeze. Everything, in fact, feels a lot better physically than it normally does. And he’s on a bed, with an IV in, so presumably they’ve given a fuck about his vitamin levels and shit.

“You don’t need to call me that,” the Black Panther says. Bucky remembers fighting him, how fast he was, how strong. Remembers thinking at least you could put me down if it needed to be done, because he’d fast come to the conclusion that Steve would never. Ever. And that - no.

Not right now.

“What do you want me to call you?”

“T’Challa is just fine,” he says. “What do you want me to call you?”

Bucky thinks about it. There could be good things in a new name. But. “Bucky’s fine,” he says. Because there’s only one name his friends ever called him.

“That it is,” T’Challa says. “How do you feel?”

“Not bad,” Bucky says. “Did you—you’re sure they’re gone.”

“Very sure,” T’Challa says. “But I’m very willing to test it out - I understand not wanting to be under someone else’s control.”

“Do you?” Bucky says.

T’Challa shrugs. “Not like you, perhaps. But destiny takes very peculiar shapes and roles in my country, and when you’re the prince, or the king, it is sometimes hard to know whose will you’re obeying. When it always ought to be the people’s.”

“What if the people want you to conquer other people?” Bucky says, mouth twisting.

“Oh, but then the people are being ruled by the worst among them. I have to be ruled by the best of the people’s impulses. People at rest do not want war.” He smiles, suddenly. “But these are heavy questions for a man who just rose from the dead. Come, let me show you around.” He holds out his hand to Bucky, who takes it carefully and then leans into the grip to pull himself up when he feels how weak he is.

“Shit,” he says, panting when he’s finally upright.

“You will likely be quite weak for a while,” T’Challa says. “There is much you can do for someone in a medical coma, but there’s no avoiding the atrophy of muscles and the lack of sufficient nutrition."“Didn’t seem to bother Hydra,” Bucky says.

“Well, perhaps their approach to refuelling you was a little more abrupt than I am willing to loan my facilities to,” T’Challa says, and Bucky remembers T’Challa has read every file there is on him, both before he went looking for the Winter Soldier and after, in preparation for the treatment. His stomach churns.

“Here,” T’Challa says, pulling out a wheelchair that had been folded up in the corner of the room. “No shame in needing support.”

Bucky sits down gratefully. “This is comfortable for a wheelchair,” he says.

“All chairs ought to be comfortable,” T’Challa says. “Perhaps not one you give your enemy, or your most irritating uncle at a family feast, but other than those, all chairs should be comfortable. Especially if someone who has been injured is using it.”

“Makes sense,” Bucky says, trying it out. It’s electric, it turns out, or battery-driven or something, and he has a joystick he can use to — ooops. He nearly runs over T’Challa’s foot.

“Sorry,” he says, reluctantly smiling. “It’s faster than I thought it would be.”

“We made it for you,” T’Challa says easily, and Bucky thought they might have, given the joystick and how well it fit in his hand. But.

“Man,” he says. “I owe you, like. Big. Why—“

T’Challa shakes his head. “Get well,” he says. “I have all I need. It is a gift to help a warrior regain his health and the free use of his mind.”

“You talk a little like you’re in a book, you know,” Bucky says, and it makes T’Challa laugh.

“I suppose that’s true, sometimes,” he says. “There are many ceremonies and a great deal of official business in my day. It does influence your speech."

“What do you do for fun around here?” Bucky says. He recognises the too-serious-for-his-own-good look, but he’s betting that - just like Steve - T’Challa knows how to have fun. No one who rides a car the way he does is without a bit of the devil in him.

“I’ll show you when you get better,” T’Challa says, smiling. “For now, are you content with the science facilities?” He motions at the door, following Bucky out.

“They’re pretty cool,” Bucky says, which is definitely an understatement. They’re high up on a passageway, surrounded by enormous sheets of glass, and he can see floors upon floors of labs just as shiny as the one his bed was in the corner of. “It’s all—what kind of research?”

“This is just, oh, exploratory biology,” T’Challa says. “We have the AI facilities over that way, where I never intend to let mr Stark visit if I do not want all my research stolen, and there’s—there’s a lot of research. We do a lot of it.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. Something about being in the midst of that much science sets off creepy-crawlies under his skin, because oh, isn’t this familiar. It’s brighter than Hydra’s, less dirty, and hopefully less blood, but he can’t help but think—who decides what gets researched?

He doesn’t say any of that to T’Challa, because he’s been kind, and he’s hopefully fixed Bucky’s brain, but oh, what if he’s just waiting to trigger them right back in? And then he’d be Wakanda’s Soldier. His hand tightens on the joystick, which makes a protesting noise.  
“Careful,” T’Challa says. “It’s durable tech, but you’re strong, my friend, even in your weakened state.

“I’m a little tired,” he says, instead of any of the things he’s been thinking. “Is there any food in this joint?”

“There’s delicious gruel and more nutrient fluid for you,” T’Challa says.

“Figured you hadn’t found a way to make that better,” Bucky says ruefully. “*s like food for sick people is the same everywhere, and never any good. Steve used to—“ Steve used to throw bowls of soup at Bucky, is what he used to do. He swallows.

“Do you want to contact Captain Rogers?” T’Challa says. “He’s a bit hard to keep track of, but I can get word to him.”“Not yet,” Bucky says. He wants to be sure. Very sure.

He’s wheeled back to the lab where he woke up, and T’Challa presses two buttons and pushes one wall aside, and then there’s an apartment that opens up. He rolls Bucky’s bed in there and says “This can be yours for as long as you need,” and Bucky really hopes he’s for real. His instincts are telling him so, but his instincts are a soup of paranoia and terrible impulses, and even advanced neurobiology can’t fix all that. He might still be in danger. He might still be dangerous.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m gonna, you know. Eat something. And I*m sure you have things to do.”  
“Yes,” T’Challa says ruefully. “A whole long list of people to meet and be stately around. I’ll—may I come back tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Bucky says.

After T’Challa leaves, he realises he ought to have asked him about training. He needs to get back into shape, and he needs to do it fast. He’s officially dead, but. But. That shit never stays secret for long. And even if the words are gone, he could bring so much trouble down on Wakanda.

Which, if they’ve brought him back to be a weapon, if they’ve left hooks in his brain, he’ll be the trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

T’Challa comes back two days later, just as Bucky is trying to figure out whether or not he can stomach the lunch. At least he’s been graduated to gruel, or something a lot like it, which is definitely better than IV fluids. Normally, he’d be starving by now, but he’s just not. Into this. He also feels like he used to like food more than he does now, or maybe it’s just the umpteenth rethawing that has played merry hell with his digestive system, like everything he eats just. Claws away at his insides. 

“It must be a little boring,” T’Challa says, nodding at the plate. “You’re not allowed spice yet, so the most that’s in that is salt.”

“That explains the lack of flavor,” Bucky says. “But I think my tastebuds are fucked, too, which isn’t helping. It’s better than what Hydra had me on, though, and better than I made for myself when I was hiding.”

“Surely, you weren’t lacking for money,” T’Challa says. “You must’ve known where to obtain cash if you needed it.”

“Knew, sure,” Bucky says. “But it’s not like I didn’t know where Hydra’s money came from. Don’t like using blood money.” 

“How’d you survive, then?” T’Challa asks, sounding fascinated. “You weren’t taking contracts, were you? And you wanted to hide.”

“I needed to hide,” Bucky corrects him. “Any hint and - well, you saw what happened.”

“I did,” T’Challa acknowledges.

“I worked, actually,” Bucky says. “Odd jobs, helping people out. When you guys found me I was mostly helping out the landlord, fixing pipes, that sort of thing.”

“What a prosaic occupation for the century’s most feared assassin,” T’Challa says, mouth quirking.

“I guess,” Bucky says. “Nice, though. Less work, less blood. It’s hell on the carpets.”

“I know what you mean,” T’Challa says ruefully.

“I bet you do,” Bucky says, then clears his throat. “Did you come to watch me eat or did you need anything in particular?”

“Your doctors say you’re allowed a small outing,” T’Challa says.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky says. “Who’s my guide?” 

“I thought I’d fill in, for today,” T’Challa says, grinning. “I’ve been looking forward to showing off my country a little.”

The wheelchair is comfortable, and Bucky can get into it without a problem now. He can stand and walk and stuff, he just gets tired really fast, so he’s glad to have it.

Their route takes them through the grounds of the hospital, discrete members of the Dora Milaje milling around them at a respectful distance, but still very much close enough to be dangerous. Even more of them are spread across rooftops, Bucky absently notes. 

“Your team of bodyguards is impressive,” Bucky says. But if T’Challa hadn’t been the Black Panther, Bucky could’ve killed him before any of them stopped him, even in his current state. 

“Don’t let them hear you call them that,” T’Challa cautions, smiling. “They’re quite formidable and have many harder jobs than keeping track of me.”

“Including keeping track of me, right?” Bucky says.

“Yes, in a sense, that’s definitely something they’re doing,” T’Challa says. “They’re experts in determining threats.” 

Bucky bristles a little, even if he understands it. 

T’Challa glances at him. “Threats against you,” he says mildly. “I listened in as you did your level best to keep from killing Stark, even as he was doing his best to murder you and your best friend. I don’t consider you a threat.”

“That’s probably stupid of you,” Bucky says, eyes on the building they’re walking towards but still monitoring all the movement around them. “Historically, I’ve been bad for the people I associate with.”

“You’ve been abandoned by the country that was supposed to protect you, cruelly used by the enemy, soundly abused by the institution that ought to have recognised your change,” T’Challa corrects him, and there’s the king, the outraged ruler. And the righteous man.

“You sound like Steve,” Bucky says. “I did a lot of bad things. It’s only natural people are suspicious.”

“Just because people’s instincts are terrible, they should not let that betray them into dishonourable actions,” T’Challa says. He’s clearly angry.

Bucky shrugs. “Used to it,” he says. “And it’s only fair."

T’Challa glances at him. “We shall return to this subject.” That’s very much not like Steve, who never met a fight he couldn’t beat to death. 

“What is this place?” Bucky asks as they enter. The building is tall, gorgeous, full of people, which makes him hunch into himself a little, instinctively.

“Research lab,” T’Challa says, and it looks it. Lots of light, lots of smart-looking people, lots of tech. Not a lot of exits. Lots of obvious security systems, and definitely lots of not-obvious ones.

He follows T’Challa into a corridor, which leads them into a room with multiple screens and a few control boards Bucky can’t figure out but he can hear the faint, faint hum of hard drives and hardware, so there’s more to this room than meets the eye. There’s a young woman waiting for them with a case. She looks familiar. Bucky blinks.

“You remember my sister,” T’Challa says.

Shuri, Bucky remembers. She put him under.

“Hello again,” she says. “Broken white boys are my specialty. But maybe you’d like to have two arms?”

Bucky licks his lips. He’d almost forgotten. 

“May I?” Shuri asks, pointing at his stump. Bucky nods, but still has to steel himself to not flinch away when Shuri touches the port.

“I modified this when we cleaned up the wound,” she says. “The neural controls - the polite word would be ‘unsophisticated,’ but I’d rather go with appalling.”

Bucky dimly recalls her explaining this, that she didn’t want to leave the arm the way it was, and he also remembers not giving a fuck, because he was about to go under.

“So the new arm will fit?” “The new arm will fit,” T’Challa agrees, sounding almost gentle. 

Shuri huffs. “Of course it will fit,” she says.

It does. Obnoxiously well. Bucky’s reminded of Howard, a little, in the way Shuri grins, and slides her thumb over the hinges.

Then he blinks. Sways a little.

“Fuck, I feel weird.” 

“I suspected as much,” T’Challa says.

“You did?” Bucky says. He’d felt - not great, but okay.

“You’re not even close to your old tests,” Shuri says. “The fitness levels, the mobility, the tests we took before we froze you and took away the Hydra programming, you’re not there yet. It appears recovery will be slow this time.”

“Just my luck,” Bucky says. “And yours, I guess. I’d like to get out of your hair before, you know. It gets out.”

“You still don’t want me to contact Captain Rogers,” T’Challa says, and it’s a statement, not a question.

Bucky shakes his head. “Not on your life.”

“Well then,” T’Challa says. “You’ll get an actual physical therapy instructor tomorrow, who is used to unusual patients, but once you’re better, I’d love it if you would work with me.

“Be prepared to lose. Eventually.” Bucky says, because he should say no, but he can’t.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky’s holed up in his hospital room, recovering from the last visit by his extremely efficient and brutal physical therapist, Oje, who’s an accomplished martial artist and also, apparently a sadist, judging by how tough she is, when the alarm goes off. 

Well.

It’s not an alarm, it’s a blinking light, and an overhead voice that says, “Sergeant Barnes, there’s a security breach. Please stay put and wait for evacuation orders."

Fuck that. Also, why hadn’t he known there was an AI in the hospital? Fuck, he hates the things. 

“Lights,” he says, but the lights stay on. Fuck.

“All systems are in evacuation mode,” the AI says pleasantly. “Please stay put, you will receive orders soon.”

At least he’s got guns, and he’s definitely not staying put. In about twenty seconds, he’s got what weapons he’s managed to squirrel away in the room, and is investigating the balcony and the outside wall for the possibility of hauling himself up or down. Thank fuck he’s got a new arm, or this would be impossible. This kind of weakness is extremely inconvenient.

He hears the noise of fighting from outside, probably two floors down or three, and swears internally again. If they’ve gotten this far—

“Here,” a voice comes from above, and he looks up. T’Challa is on the balcony above, or rather, the Black Panther is, holding his hand out. “I thought you could use an assist.”

“Someone’s attacking your hospital” Bucky points out.

“They are,” T’Challa agrees. “And I shall get you to safety and come back to support my soldiers.”

God, that’s. Just. Bucky extends his non-metal hand, gritting his teeth. T’Challa pulls him up easily, landing him on the balcony next to him. 

“We’re going to keep going up,” he says “I’ve got a helicopter on the roof.”Bucky blinks, and thinks about what he’s been told about the last time he took a helicopter, when Steve brought him down, but he submits to being lifted by T’Challa and slung over his shoulder like he weighs less than nothing.

They get to the roof, and of course there’s troops there too, hostile troops facing off with T’Challa’s forces. 

T’Challa doesn’t hesitate, just puts Bucky down and flings himself straight in, which again, just a little bit of Steve in that man. Bucky backs up, crouched down and unsteady, careful to not engage too closely, all-too-aware that he’s much, much weaker than he usually is, and hoping there’s no metahumans in this group. And that they’re not here for him, in which case he’s just made it really easy for them. 

He swings to avoid one of the dark shapes and is clobbered in the back of the neck by another. Weaving, he folds, turns, gets his new metal arm up, and blocks the second swing, but he can feel his pulse go up too much, and his ordinary focus is deserting him, the flashes from the fight coming through in blinks, moments, rather than the steady, easy flow a fight usually is.

One of the Dora Milaje ducks in under one of the masked soldiers arms, stabs them in the armpit, and nudges Bucky forward, towards the helicopter. He doesn’t need to hear her to understand the signs, and tries to follow, but apparently the hit was harder than he noticed, because the lights get stronger and then start to flicker out, and it feels like the roof moves underneath him. Fuck.

Fuck, that’s bad. 

She doesn’t stop, just turns, picks him up, staggering a little, and keeps on going. Bucky can’t really tell if she gets there, he just. Everything goes dark.


	4. Chapter 4

We need to stop meeting like this,” and Bucky blinks his eyes open, flinches at the sharp overhead lighting and sees T’Challa, who is sitting in the chair next to his bed.

“Come here often?” he says, and winces at how gravelly his voice sounds.

“Well, you do,” T’Challa says. “You added a concussion to the rest of the injuries, or should I say, made the concussion you already had worse. It’s bedtime for you, soldier, until Shuri stops looking so irritated with me.”

“Who were they?” 

“My problem;” T’Challa says grimly. 

“Fuck that,” Bucky says. 

“They weren’t here for you,” T’Challa says. “But I’m concerned that the few that got away might have seen you. We’ll have to have a better evacuation plan in place.”

Bucky frowns. Normally he has an evacuation plan, no, five evacuation plans within minutes of settling somewhere. He really must have a concussion. A really bad one. 

“I can help,” he says. T’Challa raises an eyebrow at him.

“Stand down,” he says. “You don’t know the terrain.”

“I want to know the terrain,” Bucky says. “Can I have—“

“Maps? Sure. But right now you have to rest,” T’Challa says. “I promise to tell you what the plan is next time, so you’re not caught out. This won’t happen again.”

“It could,” Bucky insists. “If Hydra—“

“Hydra,” T’Challa says. “Yes. Well. I’d like to see what they make of Wakanda.” He sounds - well. He sounds a bit like Natalya used to sound, when she was making a plan to go after someone she disliked. 

“Me too,” Bucky admits. “But I don’t want to bring you trouble.” He swallows at the earnestness in his voice. “You’ve got me on drugs,” he realizes.

“You’re working off a sedative and some pain medication,” T’Challa agrees. “The ones they developed for the Black Panther, actually, because the regular ones don’t work really well.”

“I don’t love the side effects,” Bucky mutters. 

T’Challa smiles. “They tell me expressing emotions is a good thing, in the right context, even for a king. I’m not saying I’m any good at it, mind you, but there are worse side effects to be had from medical treatments.”

That’s. Very true. Bucky doesn’t know what his face does at that, but T’Challa looks apologetic.

“Yeah, but it’s an embarrassing side effect,” he says, and T’Challa laughs. It’s a bit forced, but it’s a laugh.

“I’ll forget about it, I promise,” he says.

Bucky still doesn’t know why T’Challa comes to see him at all or why he’s taking such an interest in his recovery. He must feel like he owes Steve something, maybe.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than to sit here with me,” he says, and he knows he sounds abrupt, but he just. Has to be alone for a little bit.

“I’m sure you need some peace and quiet,” T’Challa says, and leaves as silently as he no doubt came in. 

His place is taken by Shuri, who tells him “The next time you get hit on the head, I’m not going to help.”

And then he realises she’s the woman who dragged him to the helicopter. Not a Dora, then.

“I didn’t recognise you,” he says, and adds, “uh, thank you. For. Saving me. And fixing my head.”

“You’re a bit of work,” she says. "Do you want the full list of injuries?"

Bucky shrugs. There’s been a lot of medical jargon, but he doesn’t like to listen too closely, because looking at brain scans and medical analyses sparks something angry in his brain, and it’s difficult terrain.

Shuri quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Who turned the lights up? Dim, please.” 

The lights dim into a pleasant glow and Bucky can’t help himself, he feels his face relax in relief.

“Your head hurts, doesn’t it?” she says. 

Bucky shrugs. He’s not really good at gauging pain. It’s usually a matter of “Can I walk or not?” with the serum, and with, well. It’s not like anyone cared before.

“Does your head hurt? she repeats.

“Yes,” he says, shrugging again.

“On a scale of 1 to unbearable, how much does it hurt?”

“A two?” he says, hesitant.

She frowns. “You were visibly relieved when I dimmed the light. Really?”

“It’s not that bad.”

She flicks his forehead, and he almost - almost - breaks her wrist with his metal hand, but stops himself.

“More like a 7,” she says. “For the record, you need to tell me your symptoms accurately, or I can’t help.”

He’s abruptly reminded of where he’s seen the look on her face before. Steve used to be so terrible at speaking up when he was in pain that Bucky had to read every wince and every move or he wouldn’t be able to tell if Steve’s tuberculosis was back. The fights were easier to notice - a limp or a black eye is hard to disguise. He yelled at Steve about it. A lot.

“I’ve had worse,” he says, because he has.

She softens a little. “I realise that,” she says. “But I don’t intend for you to get any worse now. I’ll give you some exercises to do once your headache recedes a bit, and it won’t be long before you’re back on your feet.”

“That’s nice,” Bucky says. And yawns.

She smiles. “I’ll let you sleep.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is a bitch when you have to be around for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to get harder before it gets better. Poor Bucky.

Recovery is a bitch when you have to be around for it. He’s reminded over and over that he’s usually frozen, and he finds out that the serum is apparently not as effective anymore from the way he’s aching every morning, and it’s more than a little frustrating to spend more than a couple of days in bed and close to it, going through gruelling physical therapy exercises. He has to keep deciding to do them, too, which is exhausting. Getting up and doing things that hurts when you have to make your own mind up to do things that don’t feel good - Bucky’s not sure how to approach it, really.

T’Challa calls it “The curse of humanity,” when Bucky accidentally asks him about it. “We can’t escape that, as people, needing to actually work against our own brains sometimes.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. He’s not sure what to say. He’s wanted nothing but his own will to be in charge for so long, but it’s so tiring. It’s hard to understand why, when it’s everything he’s wanted. No one’s going to force him to do anything here. Shuri might be a force of nature, but she’s not the kind of person who would make him do anything he doesn’t want. T’Challa is being so careful to not inflict any kind of obligation on Bucky, either.

Steve would only want him to get better, too. Bucky mostly wants to go back to bed.

But he does his exercises, limbering up his pulled muscle and feeling the bones he cracked during the fight knit back together. Slower than usual, but faster than ordinary people.

Shuri makes encouraging noises when she examines him, but she looks troubled. Bucky reads people before he realizes he’s doing it, most of the time. Listens to and watches reactions, inflections, tone, and he knows what they’re really thinking before he even knows he’s analysed anything. Right now, she’s concerned because of something about his recovery. He’s too tired to go all the way into figuring out what it is.

“Did you make it out of the room today?” she says.

Bucky shakes his head, shrugging. “It’s a nice view,” he says, nodding at the window. He watched the park, the kids playing with a strange frisbee-looking thing that flew like something aside from aerodynamics was powering it.

“Uh-huh,” Shuri says, considering him. “Tomorrow, I could use your help, if you’re game.”

“Okay?” Bucky says.

“We’re working on a new set of furniture for the children’s ward,” she says. “I think it’ll be just enough mobility for you, and a few other patients.”

Bucky peers at her from behind his hair. She doesn’t look anything but patient, but he gets the sense she really wants him to do it. 

“Sure,” he says, but the thought of spending time around other people isn’t. Very pleasant.

“It won’t be for very long,” she says, watching him. “You can leave after an hour or so.”

Bucky nods, leaning back against the side of the window. “Hoping no one remembers the news reports,” he says.

She blinks at him. “No, T’Challa issued a press release about the death of his father that came as close to the truth as he could say publicly.”

“How do you know it wasn’t everything?” 

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m his sister,” she says. “And I’m on the royal council He asked me to take charge of your recovery because he wouldn’t have to worry about information leaks. And also because I’m the best, obviously, though you’re thwarting my flawless record a bit, I have to say.” 

“Isn’t there an oath for that sort of thing?” Bucky says. “Or is it different in Wakanda?”

Shuri smiles. “The Hippocratic Corpus is definitely something that influenced us as well, yes,” she says. “As you’re probably able to tell, our technology has gotten quite advanced compared to Western nations, and so has our medical science. But the basis of it is the best of the patient, always.” 

“Even doctors who think you killed their king?” Bucky snaps, which is very unlike him - he doesn’t normally blurt anything out.

“You didn’t,” Shuri says easily. “But yes, I’ve treated traitors to the crown. I treated the last assassin who went after T’Challa and didn’t die, and I treated him just like any other patient. That’s how medical science always ought to work. We treat the poor, the rich, the traitors, the murderers, and we make them better.”

“Not in my experience,” Bucky only just stops himself from saying. He blinks, and there’s long knives in his mind, knives and surgical masks. He blinks again, and they’re gone, and he’s back in the clean, airy room, with a window where he can look at people moving around in the sunlight. Swallowing, he doesn’t say anything else either, and Shuri’s face tells quite a story of what must be on his.

“I’ll come check on you tomorrow and bring you downstairs,” she says, and Bucky is grateful she doesn’t say anything else.


	6. Chapter 6

She brings him into a room full of people, and Bucky almost turns right back around. There’s children running around, and laughter everywhere. It’s a lot. 

“We’re making furniture for the children’s play room,” Shuri says. “It’s meant to be reflective of the needs of the families in the hospital, and the surveys were done a month ago. So our designers put together a set of furniture, cupboards and tables and things to sit on and lie on, and most of them can be taken apart and put back together again like puzzle pieces, so that the next group of long-term patients can make the area theirs.”

“That’s a nice idea,” Bucky says. He can’t remember when he ever consciously chose furniture. Him and Steve filled their apartment with hand-me-downs, and, well, anything after that, not so much. Shaking his head, he looks at the room. “What do you actually want me to do?”

“We’re going to also put up a couple of movable walls,” she says, smiling. “I thought you might be okay with providing support for that, and making sure no children end up with a wall on their head.”

“Safety and security,” Bucky says, mouth twisting, a little amused. “Not how it’s usually defined, but sure, I’m pretty good at that.”

He almost laughs when Shuri plops a helmet on his head and tows him over to the engineer in charge. He is then handed one of the sketches, a hammer, and a number of strange-looking blocks that the sketch outlines as the foundation for the sliding walls.   
Taking up his position, Bucky tries to keep his head down, because honestly, he can’t possibly contribute to the mood in here, all the laughter and playing around, even though some of the kids quite clearly are fairly sick.

“Mister,” a voice says next to him, and Bucky almost smacks his arm out, only stopping himself at the last second. 

There’s a small girl, braids and alert eyes, and he swallows at how small she is, how thin.

“You’ve got an arm like mine,” she says. And oh, he does. Her arm is a shiny blue, where his is the same silver his old one was, but without the red star and without the grinding pain the old one used to transmit down his nerve endings. They do look similar, smooth joints and all.

“What happened to your old one?” he says, because she seems to expect him to say something.

She shrugs. “Don’t remember,” she says. “But the king’s sister made me this one,” she says, eyes huge. “Did she make yours too?”

“I think so,” Bucky says,. “My old one broke, and she made me one when I was in the hospital here.”

“We’re still in the hospital, silly,” she says. 

He can’t help but smile at her. “I guess you’re right,” he says. “Do you want to help me with this?” 

“Yes!” she says. “What do I do?”

“If you hold on there,” he says, and moves her blue arm to brace lightly where he's sure he won't hit her, “I can bang in the nails.”

“Should I really use that arm?” she says.

“It’s stronger,” he says. “You’ve noticed, right? It’ll be useful for, uh.” He pauses, trying to think of things other than “stopping bullets”. “Throwing things, so games at school and things.”

“It’s not cheating?” she says, looking down at her bright fingers.

“It’s your arm, isn’t it?” he says. “You can’t help it if you have a strong arm. Just because everyone else has inferior arms—"

“What’s inferior?” she says. “I don't like English sometimes, it has odd words.”

“You’re very good at it,” Bucky says, and thinks about it. “Inferior, hm, it means less good. Everyone else’s arms can’t throw as far, so they’re inferior to yours, get it?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But it’s not the same as my other one, and that’s weird too, isn’t it?”

“A little bit,” Bucky says. “But I don’t mind it anymore.” He really doesn’t. His arm is the least of his worries, and it’s such a big part of his threat response that he’s grateful to have it now.

“How long have you had yours?”

Seventy years. “A very very long time,” he says.

“Since you were small, like me?” She looks really hopeful, and Bucky’s heart wrenches a little.

“You’re not that small,” he teases her, tweaking her nose. “You’re a great size. And yeah, I’ve had my arm for about that long.” 

“It’s true I’m not small,” she says. “My little brother is much smaller.” 

God, she reminds him of Steve. The thinness of her arms, the intensity of her focus. Bucky wonders what she has, why she’s in the hospital. There’s something going on besides the arm, it’s pretty obvious.

They keep building together for about another half an hour before she starts drooping a little, and Bucky swallows, gently taking the last block out of her hand. 

“You want me to read you a story or something?” he says, eyeing the sliding walls, now pretty close to being put up by other people and the structural integrity looks alright. He can probably leave it to them.

“Yes please,” she says. “But I want you to tell me a story, I’ve read all the books in this hospital.”

“What kind of story?” he says, accepting her grip on his hand, dragging him over to one of the corners of the room where some of the comfortable furniture is set up and there’s a pile of pillows big enough to sit on. She pulls him down and they end up cuddling a little.

“About someone very brave,” she says. “Someone like the Black Panther.”

“I don’t know any stories about him,” Bucky says. “I just know he’s very brave.” Thinks about a car chase where he was very sure he was going to die, and not minding very much at the time, except that Steve was there too.

“No, a story about someone LIKE him,” she says.

Well. “That I can do,” Bucky says, smiling ruefully. He clears his throat. “A long time ago, there was a little boy who was way too brave for his own good.”

“Really? Is this a real story?”

“Yeah, it’s a real story,” he says. “His name was Steve, and he used to get in all these fights, because he was really bad at ignoring when someone was being mean to someone else, even if the mean person was much bigger than him.”

“Was Steve really small?” she says, sounding a little sleepy, but like she’s actually really interested in the story.

“Steve was about your size, actually,” Bucky says. “So a really good size, but not a great size for getting into fights."

“He didn’t have a good arm?” she says.

“No, he didn’t,” Bucky says. “But he eventually became really strong.” Because he volunteered to be an experiment, he thinks, still sore about that even seventy years later.

“How did he become really strong?” 

“He took a really stupid chance and listened to a scientist,” Bucky can’t stop himself from saying, but he shakes his head when she blinks at him, sleepily confused, and so small next to him.

“Uh, he. Hm. He encountered someone who knew magic,” Bucky says.

“Really?” she breathes. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It was a very good man, who knew magic, and who was looking for a really good man to fight a war, and he chose Steve.” He looked down at her and considered. “But if someone comes to you and says they know magic and that they can fix something really hard, I want you to tell someone else, okay?” 

“Like my mom?” she says.

“Your mom, or me, or, or the Black Panther,” he says.

“Tell me more about what happened to Steve,” she says.

He clears his throat and meets the eyes of Shuri across the room. She inclines her head, and Bucky shakes his, but he continues. This is a story he remembers, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Shuri seems to have considered the attempt a success, so she continues to invite him to various activities in the hospital. When Bucky asks what the reason is, she mostly shrugs at him or says, “It’s part of recovery, and getting you out of the room means I can catalogue reactions in other environments.”

He doesn’t want to ask, but he has to: “Do you think the reprogramming could fail?”

“No,” she says. “But it is helpful to see how you respond in different situations, just to see that it only affected what it ought to affect.”

She persists in being vague no matter how much he asks, and so he finds himself helping put up holiday decorations, climbing the walls of the hospital gym to re-anchor the lights on the ceiling, and taking food to some of the older patients.

T’Challa finds him when he’s re-anchoring the lights, and calls up to him: “When you’re done up there, could you come down? I’d like to talk to you.”

Bucky nods, intent on the tricky wiring. Apparently not even Wakanda has come up with a completely foolproof system of overhead lighting, at least not, as Shuri put it, “one that’s proof against kids who are having trouble controlling their mutations.”

He finally locates the trouble and fixes it, using the very useful new fusing tool that Shuri embedded in his arm. Giving in to an impulse to test his recovery, he vaults off the ladder, landing in front of T’Challa on the gym floor mattresses, grimacing a little at the way it jars his knees. 

“Nice,” T’Challa says. 

Bucky shrugs. “Feeling better,” he says.

“I wanted to come talk to you because we have some answers on the people who attacked the hospital.”

Swallowing, Bucky nods. “Okay?” he says.

“They’re definitely Hydra,” he says. “But they’ve teamed up with a nemesis of mine, Ulysses Klaue, and he’s trying to come after you, or me, through coming after you.”

“How come he’s interested in me?” Bucky says.

“He’s an arms dealer,” T’Challa says drily.

Bucky feels cold. “I should go,” he says. T’Challa raises his eyebrows. 

“You should not,” he says. “You need to recover, still, and I’ve promised you sanctuary.”

“It’s not sanctuary if I put you in danger,” Bucky says. He means it, and he’s also very aware of how terrified he is of getting caught again.

“You’re not putting us in danger,” T’Challa says. “And it would be both shameful and stupid of me to turn you away, because as long as you’re here, we can choose where to face them. If you run, I have to keep track of where you are so that I can stop them.”

“You wouldn’t have to, if I left,” Bucky says.

“You have a strange conception of what giving someone sanctuary means,” T’Challa says. “Wakanda doesn’t abandon its friends.”

“What about damaged nazi war weapons?” Bucky says.

“We don’t have any of those,” T’Challa says, and adds, looking at him carefully, “knowing what you know about us, would you think that maybe we would be especially interested in stopping nazis from getting what they want?”

Bucky blinks.

“I’m quite serious,” T’Challa says. “I didn’t come to tell you this to tell you we want you to leave, I came because you’ve earned the right to know everything about things that concern you. I’m going to enjoy throwing that idiotic Nazi cult back to the dark ages, where it belongs. ”

“Fine,” Bucky says. He can symphatize with that, but he can’t—engagement is hard. Hydra could come, and he would fight, because he’s never going back to them, but he can’t think about it, really.

Shuri comes over, side-eyeing her brother.

“Did you tell him yet?” she says.

“I did not,” T’Challa says. “You are the physician.”

She nods, and looks at Bucky. “I have a suggestion,” she says. “I think you’d do well to spend less time indoors. Would you like to come with me to see, er, I suppose you Westerners might call it a rehab clinic?”

Bucky shrugs. He doesn’t quite see how this hospital isn’t a giant rehab clinic, since medicine seems to come so easily to them and the recovery of the mind such a priority, but sure. He can see how he might be scaring some of the other patients, too.

“Don’t forget to say goodbye to Adia,” Shuri says.

Blinking, Bucky tries to remember - oh. The little girl. He looks around and spots her slowly building a tower with an even smaller boy.

“She seems busy,” he says.

“Adia!” Shuri calls. “Come say goodbye to Bucky.”

Adia runs over to them, throwing herself at Bucky’s legs.

“Why is he leaving?” she asks Shuri. “Why are you leaving?” she adds, looking up. Bucky ruffles her hair, looking helplessly at Shuri.

“He needs some fresh air,” Shuri says, smiling at her. “But I’ll bring him back. Now say bye.”

“Bye, mister,” Adia says. 

“Keep using that arm;” he says. “Make it your friend.” She nods, and oh, the lack of fear in her face is a lot. 

“She’s got quite the crush,” Shuri says as they walk away. “You’ve made an impression.”

“We barely talked,” he says, and she smiles at him.

“You talked enough,” she says.


End file.
